Boxed In
by FranklyAlarming
Summary: Sherlock goes missing. John is fine at first but after a while, he starts to panic. They find Sherlock in a very public place. Very trapped. And very exposed. My first fanfic on here so please be kind : comments and critisisms are much appreciated. Enjoy


John didn't panic when Sherlock had been gone for a day.

He didn't really panic when he'd been gone for two.

He started to get a little nervous when Sherlock didn't reply to his texts or answer his calls after four days.

After a week, John was distraught.

He even text Mycroft to ask where Sherlock was. The reply made John's blood run cold.

I don't know. I am notifying the Yard. –MH

Greg Lestrade stood as John walked into his office. He nodded as way of greeting. "How are you doing?" He asked John sympathetically. "Well, I haven't slept in a good while, I feel constantly sick and my hair is starting to fall out. Other than that, I'm doing okay." John replied, but there was no malice in his voice, just tiredness and worry. A lot of worry.

Lestrade started to speak again but before the words could come out, Donovan was standing at the door. "We've found him," she told the men. "Oh my god," John sighed, "Where is he?" Sally looked at her feet. "The middle of central London," she murmured. "What?" John snapped, "Why is he in central London?" Donovan didn't reply but turned to walk out the door, "Come on," she told John and Lestrade.

A box. A Perspex box. About five feet each way. Right in the centre of the busiest part of central London. Containing a very vulnerable, uncomfortable looking, naked Sherlock. He was sat in a corner of the box, his knees drawn up to his chest, his head down. Police were surrounding the box now, moving people on but they still stopped to stare at the spectacle.

John was outraged. He ran to the box and knelt on the ground, level with Sherlock. He knocked on the plastic but Sherlock just tried to bury his head deeper into his chest and knees. "Sherlock," John called, "It's me." Sherlock's head twitched upwards and he scrambled to turn himself around. His face lit up when he saw John. He put his palm flat on the wall of his cage and John did the same, laying his over Sherlock's. John shouted over his shoulder; "Why the HELL is he still in here?" Donovan walked over quickly. "We can't get him out, John. The Perspex is really strong, but we're working on it," she explained, sounding sincere. John glared incredulously. "Well, can't you cover him up somehow so at least he isn't so...exposed?" Anderson sauntered over at this point and he snorted at the sight of Sherlock. "Oh look," he muttered to Sally, "A freak show." Sally's jaw dropped. She elbowed him forcefully in the ribs. "Why are you such a dick?" She asked venomously before stalking away.

Sherlock watched as John stood from where he knelt. "What did you say?" he asked Anderson menacingly, rounding on him. Anderson's eyes flicked left and right in search of escape but before he had the chance, a blow landed on the side of his face sending him stumbling backwards and then losing his balance. John turned back to Sherlock who was smiling slightly. John went back to where he was kneeling before. "Always a pleasure," he said, his voice croaky and slightly muffled by the plastic, "Seeing Anderson get hit in the face." John smiled tightly. He was trying to be himself. He was trying to make light of this. He had been folded away in a plastic box for god knows how long and he was trying to act normally. Trying.

John tried to asses any medical damage looking at Sherlock through the box. He had bruises around his wrists and ankles. "Move your legs away from your chest for a sec'" John asked Sherlock gently. Sherlock shook his head. "Please? I need to see if you're hurt," he reasoned. Sherlock hesitantly straightened his legs. His pale chest was littered with purple and blue blooms, some of the older ones turning to yellows and greens. His thighs were in a similar state. It was possible he had a few broken ribs but John wouldn't be able to tell until he was out of that blasted box. What was very clear, though, was the shape of a heart etched into his left pectoral. It looked fairly fresh, dried blood smudged around the delicate shape.

Lestrade walked over and Sherlock immediately snatched his knees back up to his chest, wincing as he did. "Bad news," he said guiltily, "There's been a massive pile up on one of the roads into London and they're using the machinery we need to get you out of here." John sighed. "There's no other way?" Lestrade sighed in return. "I'm afraid not but here," he produced a bundle of black fabric, "We can cover him with this." John looked at the fabric and then at Sherlock. Sherlock nodded. "Hang on," John said. He jogged over to a cafe that had out door seating and brought over one of the chairs. Lestrade look quizzically at him. He put the chair next to the box, the back against it. He sat with his legs either side of the chair, facing the back, and Sherlock. "Alright," John shrugged and Lestrade threw the fabric over the box, concealing John and Sherlock in their own little world. The fabric was thin enough to let in some light but not to see through completely.

Once they were covered, Sherlock let himself stretch out a little. He looked up at John. "You're staying?" He asked. John frowned. "Of course I'm staying!" He replied. Sherlock gave a small, soft smile. His "Thank you," was barely audible through the two-inch-thick Perspex.

They didn't really speak, after John asked Sherlock what happened and Sherlock gave him the foggy details he didn't really remember. Sherlock rested against the side of the box with his eyes shut, trying to regain some sense of...himself. After a while, his attention was drawn to a pattering sound on the top of the box. He turned to John who was watching him intently. "Go home," he told the doctor, "It's starting to rain." John looked upwards and then back to Sherlock. "No," he said flatly. "Don't be stupid, John, you'll get cold and wet," Sherlock argued. "I don't care, I'm not leaving you," John replied in the same determined tone. Sherlock smiled a silent thanks.

When Sherlock was finally cut out of the damned plastic box, John held him tightly to his chest. When he was released, Sherlock hugged the bright orange shock blanket closer to him and looked at the floor. "I didn't like that," he murmured in a small voice. John just looked at him with a gentle sympathy. "Don't make me go to the hospital, John." John sighed and looked at Sherlock. He looked exhausted and dishevelled and John's heart ached a little for him. He nodded his consent. "But you have to go in the morning, okay?" Sherlock sighed now and nodded reluctantly. "I was worried about you," John told him, trying to sound casual, "I still am really."

"I wouldn't be," Sherlock replied, keeping close to John as they walked, "You're here now."


End file.
